Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Primrose was feeling sad. Her paint was faded and her garland of flowers looked like pallid overcooked Brussels sprouts. It seemed as if nobody could help her. Not even the garden fairy, and all her nome friends feared she was going into a decline. 

At midnight, under a fat, full moon, Brenda dragged Primrose into the centre of a ring of tiny mushrooms.

“What’s supposed to happen now?”

“I don’t know. Just you set still and wait.”

In the morning, Primrose looked just the same. But her smile was back.

“That’s moon magic. You never knows what it might do.”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

bibed (noun) – shared sleeping space often mildly smelly

chike (noun) – small bird with a piercing cry and a yellow beak – that leaves behind it the unmistakable odour of burned custard

cycnical (adverb) – of doing chores, to do two minutes hoovering followed by twenty minutes on Twitter

earleir (adverb) – of the insertion of earrings: missing the hole

graet (verb) – to remove hard skin from the toes with abrasive paper

hopig (noun) – sexually indiscriminate sow

midwintert (adjective) – of weather, being cold and with the sort of fog you can chew

miselry (verb) – pertaining to singing the poking of one finger in the ear whilst harmonising

oment (noun) – phenomenon similar to a crop circle, occurring in baked beans and portending ill luck  for short red-haired women

reain (verb) – of colonials rediscovering their Caledonian roots

relif (noun) – raised pattern on ankles caused by too-tight socks

sensibel (adjective) – of shoes both practical and pretty

supermatket (noun) – very absorbent doormat available in kit form from a very famous retailer of kits

unfortuante (noun) – maiden aunt with a very good moustache and halitosis

welld (verb) – to repair stuff with a hot glue gun (badly)

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Growing older means now you can smile
When you think how it was for a while
In your youthful years
When all of your fears
Were about if you had the right style

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, here to induct you into the greater mysteries of the literary art. I am, of course, already well known to you as the much-feted author of  “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, which one kind reviewer once described as ‘unique’ and ‘unforgettable’ although much of the rest of the review is unrepeatable in polite company.

Mumsie made an interesting point over breakfast the other day. She had just put two more tablespoons of sugar over her frosted-flakes and added a generous dose of Tia Maria to her morning cup of coffee. I had been reading the paper and tutting over all those dreadful unwashing poor people who keep complaining about how unfair things are, when she said: “Don’t you think it’s really odd, Moons, that men get called heroes?”

Being polite I shook the paper vigorously to indicate I was reading, but Mummy was not to be dissuaded: “It’s odd cos Hero was a woman, right? In the myth – she was the heroic one who tried to save that Leander. So why are men called ‘heroes’?”

Knowing I would not be left in peace until I had proffered a contribution, I sighed and reluctantly peered at her over the table. “So why?” I asked.

“No idea. It’s just fucking odd. Maybe it’s a possessive ‘s’ in Hero’s?”

Needless to say, I made good my escape back to my writing cubby in the refurbished coal cellar just as soon as I had crunched my last mouthful of toast and marmalade.

I have to admit to not being so well acquainted with the female of the species. My education took place in the monastic gender-solitude of a school which snapped at the heels of Eton, Westminster and Rugby – and we usually had our faces trodden on by their students on the rare occasions our teams met on sports-fields too. So my main window into the wonderful world of womanhood has always been my beloved Mumsie and the women in books, TV shows, films – and some special magazines and websites which I study purely for research purposes.

Which is why today’s lesson for you my devoted disciples of the pen, is intended for those who, like me, are biologically unable to understand the mysterious feminine. It will give you much-needed guidance on how to write these other gendered humans as realistically as you write your men.

Strong Female Characters

The first thing to remember, dear Male Reader Who Writes (MRWW), is that women are not the same as men in any but the most basic respects. Yes, like us they will acknowledge the lower levels of Maslow’s Triangle, but once away from the necessities of existence such as food and shelter, the feminine operates upon an entirely alternative agenda to the masculine.

To be brief and blunt – you will never understand women, they are a psychologically alien species. So don’t even try. Make your heroines the epitome of your self-conceived notions of femininity and you will not go too far wrong.

The recent trend to have a ‘strong, female, protagonist’ does, however, need to be addressed. This is very simple to achieve.

Rule One: She must be devastatingly beautiful.

Rule Two: She must be able to physically beat up men.

Rule Three: She must be rude to everyone – but especially to men.

Rule Four: She must be selfish and ambitious and not care who she hurts to get her way.

Rule Five: She must do a job that is male-dominated and do it well.

Rule Six: She must have no feminine attributes except large breasts and high-heels.

Rule Seven: She is probably a Lesbian.

And with that, amigos, I bid you adieu.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Come out on the board, he said
It will be so much fun
I’ll paddle while you ride, he said
It’s lovely in the sun
I went out on the board with him
He had a lovely time
Because his smile made sun look dim
The pleasure was all mine

©️ jj 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends. Life seems to be going well when…

I hadn’t realised Ellen was back until she spoke from behind me. “And I’ll go over to yours and deal with the twins’ bedtime. I’ll just tell them you are working late.”
I held out my arms and we hugged. “Thank you, dear.”
Ellen went on soft feet and Sian grinned tautly. “I need to see what Benny has before I can finish putting together a TikTok. Can I sit here and do my homework while I wait?”
“Course you can, lovely. So long as doing this won’t put you in any danger.”
“No. Not if you get Mark onside.”
“Oh, I’m onside all right.”
A deep voice from the doorway made me jump and I whirled to face a rather grim looking Mark.
“When I saw Morgan’s face, I put out some feelers. It smells as if The Fair Maid is being lined up for a spot of extortion and we can’t have that.”
“No we can’t. But even more importantly, we can’t have people bitch-slapping the kids.”
Sian snorted. “No we can’t. But equally we can’t let the gruesome twosome know that Mark is here and in the mood for blood. You know how much they adore him and how good their emotional antennae are. We need to keep them apart this evening, or explain this whole can of worms to two over-intelligent six-year-olds.”
Which was an absolute truth and required a bit of thought. I looked at Mark.
“Where’d you park the Jag?”
“Far corner of the overflow car park away from prying eyes.”
“Good. So Roz and Ali won’t see it. I’ll call Ben and make sure he doesn’t bring them in through the pub and we’ll be laughing.”
I picked up the phone and it pinged before I had chance to make my call. It was Ben.
“Two sleepy people packed into their car seats. We should be home in about thirty minutes.”
“Will you take them straight indoors. I’m a bit hung up with paperwork, but Ellen is there to do bedtime and sit with them until we finish up here.”
“Okay. Can do. I’m putting the phone on speaker now. Say goodnight to mummy, girls. She’s in the office doing busy things, so Ellen is going to put you to bed and read your story tonight.”
“Goodnight mummy.” Two sleepy voices chorused.
“Goodnight my loves.”
Ben ended the call and Mark grinned at me. “Those girls.”
“Haven’t you got enough girls of your own?” Sian giggled.
“You can never have too many girls in your life.” Then he actually blushed. “There may be another one soon. Debs is pregnant. But we have chosen not to be told the gender.”
Both Sian and I hugged him.
“What will Debs say when she finds out you told us?” I teased.
He smiled widely. “It’s okay. I had permission. We called Hannah, last night and told Morgan this afternoon. Other family is allowed now.”
“How did your daughters react?” I asked, knowing how well he and Debs had melded their two families, but also knowing what different characters his Hannah and her Morgan were.
“About how you would expect as you know them well. Hannah laughed until I thought she was going to cry before dropping a bomb on my feet, and Morgan hugged us for all she was worth while she tried not to cry.”
“What was Hannah’s bomb?” It was Sian who asked.
“She and Thomas are trying for a baby themselves. She thought it might have been funny if I had a grandchild older than my youngest child. Debs laughed at my expression, before reminding me that we want more than one between us so it could still be true. The women in my life do have a way of putting me in my place.”
Sian snorted derisively. “Oh yeah. I bet they don’t even dent the machismo.”
I decided to put my foot down before Mark could retort. “You can both behave. Sian stop being cheeky, and Mark please remember that it ill-behoves the Managing Director of Brown Brothers to get into a brangling match with a cocky teenager.”
They both threw me mocking salutes, but they shut up.
I went to the bar and refreshed my sadly warm and flat drink, returning with a coke for Sian, an alcohol-free lager for Mark and beer nuts for us all. Sian applied herself to the creation of a video. We chatted quietly and by the time I heard Ben’s familiar tread Sian was ready to finish her handiwork. Ben came into the office walking very quietly.
“Bloody woman,” he grumbled.
“You shouldn’t be talking about Joss like that.”
Sian’s cheekiness stopped him in his tracks and he slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand.
“You’re dead right there.”
He crossed the room in two strides, wrapping me in his arms and kissing me lightly but with a punch of sensuality.
“What’s pissed on your strawberries marito mio?”
“That bloody bitch. Seems like she makes a career out of stiffing people, and then her back-up boys move in for a bit of extortion and intimidation. The constabulary has had her in their hands several times, but every time the complaint gets dropped and they have to let her go.”
“And we know this because?”
“Because a detective sergeant of our acquaintance was at the drive-through when this arrest occurred. He was rather pleased to think this one might even stick.”
“Oh it will. The burger people aren’t the sort to back down.”
Mark nodded. “But she’ll only get a slapped wrist.”
“Which’ll be better than nothing.”
“And it’ll give her a record,” Mark said with false mildness.
“Good,” Sian bit the word off. “Have you got anything Benny?”
“Yep. Will I Air Drop it to you?”
“Please.”
By the grin on Sian’s face when she looked at what Ben sent, it was precisely what she wanted. Ten minutes later she sat back and flexed her fingers.
“I think that does it. You wanna watch?”
The video lasted approximately ninety seconds, and it cleverly spotlighted what a nasty piece of work we were dealing with, whilst making her look a complete idiot.
Mark grinned. “I particularly like the screaming and swearing.”
“Me too. And it’s all kosher. I think Morgan should see it before I set it running.”
“Good thinking.”
Another ten minutes saw Morgan’s enthusiastic endorsement and Sian outlined her plan of action. It seemed good, and we all nodded, with Mark adding an offer to post on a website set up to allow private security companies to identify idiots. Sian showed him her teeth in a wicked grin.
“Five, four, three, two, one. Boom! Operation ‘don’t fuck with my friends’ is go.”
“Sian. Mind your language please. I don’t want your mum after my blood,” Mark said.
A thought struck me and I waved my hands for attention .
“Sian. Have you ever heard of a website called FAFO?”
Mark and Ben looked bemused, but Sian nodded delightedly.
“Moratorium on language?” she asked.
“While you explain.” That was Stella’s voice from the open door.
“Fuck Around and Find Out is a website where people post clips of eejits getting their comeuppance.”
“Can we post there?”
“If we sign up.”
“Let me do that,” Mark said. “Or, rather, will you do it for me? Because I’m fairly sure even the dimmest muscle will be bright enough not to get on the wrong side of Brown Brothers.”
So it was that a video of a very unpleasant woman went viral and the rest of us went about our business.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Sure, enough she had barely got home, given Ruffkin his breakfast and made a fresh pot of fruit tea, before the Visitor she had overheard on the pier was banging on her door. She didn’t bother to welcome them, focusing instead on pouring some of the fruit tea into a pottery bottle and sealing it up.
“Come in. It’s not locked.”
The figure who entered might have stepped out of an ancient tale. She was clearly an elf, the pointed ears, elaborate hair and lofty expression of superiority spoke to that. She wore golden armour that gleamed with its own radiance and even lit up the room more brightly. One hand rested on the pommel of a sword, shaped to resemble the skull of a dragon with hollow socket eyes that gleamed darkly and a jagged blade representing flames coming out of its mouth. On her back was a bow, Milla could see it over the elf’s shoulder, which looked like it was made of a milky white wood, set with tiny gemstones.
This was clearly the kind of Visitor Pew called a poser.
“Hail fair lady. I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, have need of your wisdom.” The elf managed to make it sound as if she were doing Milla a favour by allowing her to help, instead of it being the other way around.
Putting her hands on her hips, she wrinkled up her snout and glared at the elf, and Ruffkin gave a low growl from his bed by the hearth.
“Really?”
The elf looked a bit puzzled and cleared her throat.
“Hail fair lady. I, Blessedknight Gloryjammer, have need of your wisdom.”
“Yes. You said.”
“Uh…?”
“I don’t know how things are in the Melifulous Glades where you elves all come from, but here in Wrathburnt Sands we have these things called ‘manners’. You might even have heard of them?”
The elf had changed colour and looked a little grey.
“I…Uh… B-but this isn’t in the walkthrough.”
“Please,” Milla told her helpfully. “You say please.”
The elf swallowed.
“But it isn’t…”
“In the walkthrough?”
The elf shook her head.
“I don’t think that’s my problem,” Milla said and tapped her foot impatiently.
The elf looked close to tears.
“Alright. Please. Please will you give me the fragging pyramid quest?”
Milla sighed and picked up the bottle of tea and held it out to the unhappy-looking elf.
“You’ll need to get some flyberry cookies from One Eye Rye as well, so save yourself the time and get some flyberries before you go to see him.”
The elf took the bottle and stared at it uncomprehending.
“I already got some berries, but what’s this?”
“Fruit tea. The drakonettes who guard the pyramid love it.”
“But that’s not…”
“In the walkthrough?”
The elf shook her head again.
Milla resisted the temptation to shake hers and instead managed a fake smile. Not that the elf would think it fake. Visitor’s never noticed such things. Except for Pew.
“Uh. Alright. If you say so,” the elf said, sounding sulky. Then the colour shot back into her face with embarrassment “I mean – I thank you fair lady Milla for aiding me in my quest.”
Milla decided not to say that the only reason she had given her the tea was because she didn’t want the elf coming back to her house and trying to use her fire to make the tea herself. She’d learned early on that if she let them do that the Visitors always left the place in a mess.
Instead, she pulled a newly finished necklace of shells from her pocket and dropped it into the elf’s hand.
“Oh, and that’s the quest reward so you won’t need to come back and find me afterwards.”
The elf’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish.
“But..but…”
“But it won’t work until you’ve finished the whole thing in the pyramid, relit the Everburning Eternal Fire, defeated the Lich Lord and summoned the Guardian of the Ages. So you’d better get going. You’ve a busy day ahead.”
As she spoke she gripped one heavily armoured elbow and spun the elf, unresisting, on the spot before pushing her firmly out of the front door and closing it behind her.
This time Milla did lock it. Turning the key firmly. She’d had more than enough of Visitors for the day and it wasn’t even lunchtime. She sat at her table and drank some of the fruit tea. Once she had tidied the place up she might do some baking then pop over to see One Eye and…
There came a thunderous knocking on the door.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 13th Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Cheezer and Chigger had an argument one night, which culminated in Chigger having to be rescued from the bog garden. He was sullenly angry, and the nome community thought him bent on vengeance. They were right. At midnight the twang of a sprung nome trap was followed by horrendous bellowing.

First there was Granny, followed by Brenda and Bernard. They looked up into the suspended face – of Chigger .

“I thought you laid a trap for Cheezer,” Brenda remarked.

He swore loudly. Brenda shrugged.

“If you makes a nome trap,” she said, “it’s as well to remember where you set it.”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

aminal (noun) – the knitted thing dragged around by a toddler which it can never be persuaded to part with for long enough to be washed

chocies (plural noun) – the best chocolates in the box

eithert (noun) – the face pulled by drunk people lighting the wrong end of a ciggy

hampet (noun) – a small furry rodent, genetically engineered to be uber cute

horriblt (noun) – foul mouthed hobbit

insprit (verb) – particularly of toddlers to insert any foreign object in the left nostril. Example: The inspriting of his sister’s craft beads caused Peterkin an uncomfortable interlude in A&E

jakstrap (noun) – piece of S&M equipment of whose uses I wot not

kow (noun) – ungulate animal with a pouch and an udder

mulchy (adjective) – of gardeners boots being rendered three sizes bigger by the addition of a mixture of thick clay and well-rotted manure

noludar (noun) – delivery driver whose satnav has picked up, often found crying in a lay-by on the B793 near Harrogate

relaly (adjective) – of getting pissed again on coffee after a heavy Pernod night

sandles (noun) – extra springy love handles

tatstes (noun) – slightly overripe gonads with an odd odour

upshit (verb) – in deference to those of gentle sensibilities I will merely explain that this refers to the bodily functions of those inebriated enough to be face down in a gutter

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

It isn’t as if we can know
The future and where things will go
To always be stellar
Take sunscreen and umbrella
And then you can go with the flow

E.M. Swift-Hook